Lost Boys Page 12

  Jaafer pulled his blanket up to his chin. “I’m just saying you should be careful.”

  I smiled in the dark. “I will be—and thanks, Jaafer.” I waited for a response but realized that my friend was already asleep.

  I woke up several hours later, wondering how I’d been asleep at all when it was so incredibly cold. Then I realized I’d woken because the key was turning in the lock. I didn’t think it was possible to get colder, but a chill shook my already-frozen skin. The dim light coming through the high window shone on the door creeping open. Should I wake the others? I stifled a gasp when I saw Abass. I thought of the stories we’d heard of boys taken away and never seen again.

  Before I could react, Abass walked down the length of the room holding something in his hand. What was it? It was too big for a gun. When he reached the far wall, I saw it was a step stool. What could he possibly be doing?

  Keeping my eyelids almost closed, I watched Abass use the stool to reach up and open the windows as wide as they would go. Immediately a rush of frigid air filled the room. He opened all the windows he could reach.

  The minute he left the room, I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest to conserve what little heat I had. Within a few minutes, the others started waking. Jaafer was the first to speak.

  “What the—? Who opened the windows?”

  “Abass,” I whispered.

  “We’ll freeze to death,” said Salar. “Can’t we close the stupid things?”

  “He had a step stool. Guess what? He didn’t leave it for us.”

  “Jerk,” said two boys at once.

  Salar stood up and looked around. “Maybe someone could get on Omid’s shoulders.”

  “Why me?” said Omid. “You’re almost as tall as I am. Hey, Pasha, come here. Aren’t you taller than I am?”

  Pasha just pulled his blanket tighter around him and faced the wall.

  “Come on, Omid. Stop arguing,” urged Salar. “We need every inch we can get.”

  “If you can lift me up,” said Farhad, “I bet I can get them.”

  Finally, after several tries, Omid and Farhad pulled some of the windows halfway shut, but the room was still full of our frozen breath. No one slept.

  “It’s my fault,” I said.

  “Forget it. The man’s a moron,” said Jaafer. “If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been someone else.”

  “Probably me,” said Omid, rubbing his hands together.

  “One thing,” said Salar as he yanked his blanket tighter around him. “Tomorrow we don’t give him the satisfaction. We’ll pretend we slept like babies. We’ll file into breakfast like it’s the first day of summer. Agreed?”

  Through chattering teeth, we all grunted agreement.

  * * *

  Salar was right. Acting cheerful the next morning made us feel surprisingly good. Especially when Abass scowled in our direction as we laughed and ate.

  Jaafer, Omid, and I checked on the new boys after breakfast.

  “If it isn’t the Maggot,” said the boy who knew Ebi. “You put on quite a show for our welcome—thanks.”

  “Aim to please,” I said. “So you guys know Ebi?” I tried to keep my voice from squeaking.

  “He came in a few months ago,” said a younger boy. “At first he was pretty quiet, but I guess that’s to be expected, given the circumstances.”

  I wondered what he meant, but then remembered my time in the hospital.

  “A few weeks ago guys from here came into camp and had your name written on a piece of paper,” said the older boy. “Ebi went wild. Singing and yelling your name. Come to think of it, he got clocked by one of the guards, too.”

  “Is he okay?”

  The boys looked at each other. “He got banged up pretty bad, but he’s all right, considering. Made us promise on our mother’s soul that we’d look for you if we got here.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Wish I could see him, but at least I know he’s alive.”

  Omid clapped me on the back. “Thank God we’ve got that figured out, right, chump?”

  “Yeah.” Jaafer nudged my ribs. “Maybe now we can talk about something else around here.”

  I smiled and kicked them both from behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  By the next music class, Miles had good news. The major who ran the camp had approved the idea of a play, telling Miles he always goes to the theater in his hometown.

  “Of course, he still needs to approve the script, lads. Let’s stay away from religion and politics. Think you can do that?”

  The room erupted into chatter, and a sea of hands shot in the air, vying for Miles’s attention.

  “All right, boys. Stop your blather now. One at a time, please. First, Salar—you expressed some interest in writing a script, yes?”

  “At your service, sir.” Salar bowed low. “It would help if I could get my hands on a copy of the original story. And can we get costumes? Maybe some scenery?”

  Miles moved to his desk for a piece of paper. “Okay, give me a list. I’m going to Baghdad tomorrow. I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise anything.”

  Miles came back a few days later with several boxes. Fabric. Paper. Paints. It was an odd assortment of things begged and borrowed, but it felt like a treasure chest. As we pored through the loot, Miles pulled me aside.

  “I’d like you to be music director, Reza. Do you read music?”

  “No. I just play what I hear, I guess.”

  “That’s fine. You’ve obviously got an ear. I should be able to teach you the basics fast.” He handed me two tattered books of sheet music. “You can help me choose the songs to go with the story, then you can direct the others who play. Will you do that?”

  He wanted me to be in charge of the music? I’d never done anything like that. I couldn’t imagine it. I started to give back the tattered books. But then, for a fraction of a second, I felt Uncle behind me. I pulled the books to my chest. I could learn to read music. I could play with other people. To be a real musician was all I’d ever wanted.

  I straightened my shoulders just a little, tucked the music under my arm, and said, “I’ll give it a go.”

  For the next few days Salar spent lockdown on his mat scribbling away. Sometimes he’d read us a passage and ask for help. Other times he’d tell us to shut up so he could concentrate. Finally the script was ready to go to the major. Miles promised he’d do what he could to get the major’s quick approval, but days went by with no word.

  Meanwhile we listened keenly for any talk of the Red Crescent’s efforts to get us home. Rumors of a peace treaty sent a ripple of anticipation through the camp. Whenever we could, we’d get someone to translate articles from the local papers. Sometimes we’d get papers in Farsi, but the news was all of fierce battles without a mention of peace. The pictures always reminded me of our first day out—those stacks of dead bodies.

  “Look at this,” crowed Pasha, waving a battered old newspaper in the air at lunch one day. “Our leader will hold fast against talk of surrender.” He read out loud: “There are no conditions. The only condition is that the regime in Baghdad must fall and must be replaced by an Islamic Republic.”

  “Idiot, a peace treaty isn’t a surrender,” I said. “It’s more like a truce. Don’t you know the difference?”

  “There is no difference,” growled Pasha. “There is nothing short of full victory.”

  “And meanwhile we’ll be stuck here until we’re old men.” I snorted.

  “It’s worth the sacrifice.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but Jaafer caught my eye. I sighed and turned away. Jaafer was right. Challenging Pasha was like building a sand castle at the water’s edge. Nothing to show for the effort.

  As we sat, Pasha put the paper on the table. I pulled it toward me and read.

  Omid went to get the table’s ration of rice and onions. Within seconds he hurried back with two huge bowls. “We’re in luck. Rice and real meat today. Check it out.”

  Salar
whistled softly. “What’s up with this? Better be careful, boys—think they’re trying to poison us?”

  Everyone laughed weakly. I looked toward the door. “The food’s not for our benefit, gentlemen. We get to eat it, but it’s for show. Must be journalists.”

  We turned to see a group of men walk into the cafeteria with the major. Omid served the food. “I don’t care why it’s here. I’m going to enjoy it.” He passed the bowls around the table.

  “Look how puffed up the major is,” said Jaafer through a full mouth. “Like a stupid peacock.”

  We watched as the men sat down to eat. Miles came into the cafeteria and joined the group. Two of them—one looked European and the other Iraqi—stood up to greet him with hugs and backslapping. After a few minutes of talking, Miles motioned them over to our table.

  “Boys, meet my mates, Mark and Masood from the Red Crescent.” As Miles introduced each of us, the major hurried over with the rest of the delegation. It was clear he hadn’t planned for this meeting.

  “Ah, yes, what have we here?” The major looked between Miles and the visitors. “Well … yes, this is our little group of thespians. As we speak, they are working on a play to perform for the rest of the camp.”

  Miles turned to face the major. “Excellent, sir. I assume that means you approved our script. The boys have been so anxious to hear.”

  “Ah … I…” The major faltered with the eyes of the delegation on him. “But, of course, it’s a fine script. I very much look forward to seeing it performed. And maybe now we should move on, gentlemen.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Where did Jaafer get the guts to speak to the major? “I was wondering, sir, if we could ask our guests about the rumors we’ve heard that we might be sent home soon.”

  “Of course, I’d be happy to have you ask,” said the major, though the furrows in his forehead said something different.

  The man Miles had introduced as Masood looked at his colleagues, then back at the table. “I’ll be honest with you. We don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s very complicated, but there are a lot of people trying to negotiate on your behalf. All we can do is hope.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Jaafer, echoed by the rest of us.

  “All right, well, I know we’ve all enjoyed our little visit, but we have much to see now,” said the major. “Miles, will you take us to the classrooms?”

  As they left the room, Miles looked over his shoulder and winked at us. After they were gone, everyone spoke at once. We laughed and clapped Jaafer on the back.

  “We may really be going home, Rez,” said Jaafer, his eyes shining. “Promise to come visit me.”

  “Absolutely.” I nodded.

  “Man, a little more enthusiasm would be nice.”

  “Jaaf, you have a family to go back to. If Ebi doesn’t make it home, it’s just me and my mother, who doesn’t want me around.”

  “Come on, Rez. How do you know that?”

  I reached over and grabbed Pasha’s copy of Ettela’at. It was the newspaper my mother read. “Look at this.” I read aloud: “There is not a single school or town that is excluded from the happiness of waging war, from drinking the exquisite elixir of death or from the sweet death of the martyr, who dies in order to live forever in paradise.

  “My mother could have written this. If I’d come home a hero, it might have been different, but now she won’t want me around as a constant reminder that I didn’t die when I should have.”

  Jaafer took the paper and read it over again himself. “Isn’t there someone else you could live with?”

  Would Aunt Azar take me in? I didn’t know. I didn’t answer.

  “Reza, come on,” said Jaafer. “It’d have to be better than here.”

  I thought of Miles and the tar and wondered if that was true.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A few days later, Miles walked into the classroom, waving the script in the air. We all cheered.

  “That was brilliant,” I said when the din died down. “The old man was going to sit on this for weeks.”

  “That was great, Miles,” echoed Jaafer. “You really got him in a corner.”

  “Now, now, boys,” said Miles, waving for us to sit down. “You don’t know. He might have approved the script sooner rather than later. But I suspect sooner might have been a month or two.” A grin erupted on his ruddy face. “It was rather brilliant, wasn’t it?”

  He pulled out a calendar from his briefcase. “All right then, now we have to get busy. We need to decide on a performance date and divide up duties.”

  We worked on the play every minute we could. Back home we would have said this project was lame, but here we gave it everything we had.

  I recruited two other boys who’d played music since they were young. I envied them for growing up in families that allowed this.

  Miles found a wooden flute and lent us his old guitar. If we weren’t in lockdown, we practiced. Salar became the director. They only gave us blunt tools. I guess they were afraid we’d try to make weapons out of straight pins. Omid built a small stage and a couple of boys put together costumes.

  “Excellent work, Reza,” Miles said one day when we sat down with the sheet music in front of us. He had come in before class for the second time that week just to work with me. “I’ve taught other kids, and nobody remembers so much after the first session.”

  “Once you show me, I hear the notes in my head. I kind of remember learning to read and this is a hundred times easier.” I picked up the tar and strummed it.

  “It is easier for you, but it’s not for everyone.” His laugh was deep and warm and made me think of a wood fire. “My sister could never get it. Lovely singing voice, but she can’t transfer the notes to her head. I forget, did you tell me you don’t sing?”

  “When I was a kid, my dad and my uncle sang songs to me. But since the revolution it’s been harder. When no one was home I would sometimes sing to myself, but I always had to be careful because Mother would get so angry.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve already flown off the handle once about this, so I’ll try to stay calm. It’s just so frustrating. Look how well you’re doing! You’re learning to read music and playing like a pro. Just think what it could have been like if you’d been playing all your life.”

  “I know. I’ve thought about that,” I said quietly.

  “I’ll say it’s been a pleasure to teach you. Really special.”

  I dipped my head. “Thanks.”

  “Have you thought about doing anything with this talent, Reza? I mean as a profession?”

  “The way it looks, I’ll be spending the rest of my life right here. And even if I could get home, there isn’t a place for the kind of music I like.”

  “Not now, not today, but someday there might be. This regime won’t last forever. And maybe…” Miles hesitated, weighing his words. “Well, never mind, I shouldn’t say.”

  “What?” I looked up.

  “I was thinking … just wondering … well, there are other places you could live, when you’re older, I mean.” He took the tar, checked the strings, and put it in its case. “And you’ll get out of here. I still have hope. I admit it looks bleak right now, but they can’t keep you here forever.”

  I sat, not moving. I could picture myself at home, miserable and alone. I could picture myself here. But I didn’t know how to picture myself anywhere else. There was nowhere else I knew.

  Miles watched me. He broke the silence. “It was just a thought, lad. Just something to mull over. Now come on, we better get to class.”

  * * *

  Working on the play was the thing that warmed us as the icy wind blew in eddies around the yard. I imagined our play going on tour and how we’d arrive at Ebi’s camp. I thought about this all the time, even though I knew we didn’t have permission to go to other camps. I’d asked Miles about it as soon as we got approval for the script, and he said, “One thing at a time.” So I knew it might not happen, but I couldn’
t stop thinking about it. To hear Ebi call me “Maggot” again would be like every birthday present I’d ever had rolled into one.

  Other than the play, it was the same thing every day. A couple of times I helped Majid and a few boys take the garbage and load it onto a waiting truck. Or we just watched Abass herd groups of new boys from the office, their jackets still bright yellow.

  Then there was the day a new boy came in—he looked so young. He had burns on one side of his face and on his arms. As I watched, the kid stumbled and whimpered. It was barely a whisper, but Abass turned on him and yelled, “What’s your problem, you little Persian cockroach?” Then he hit the side of the boy’s head with his big fist. The boy fell to his knees, staring at the huge guard. Tears rolled down his face.

  Without thinking, I was by his side. “Leave the kid alone. Can’t you tell he’s terrified?”

  I could feel trouble coming, like a summer storm, but something in the kid’s tears made me move in front of him to face the hate in Abass’s face.

  Abass pointed at Salar, who’d come up behind me. “You. Take these new prisoners into the cafeteria. I’ll deal with this one.”

  Salar, reaching for my arm, said, “Here, why don’t I get Reza out of here. He’s such a—”

  “Go,” barked Abass as he grabbed my arm and yanked me across the yard. It was all I could do to stay upright as he dragged me around the back of the classroom building, where I’d never been.

  The ground was scattered with old pipes and rotting boxes. No one could see us back here, or even hear us if they’d gone in for lunch.

  “I’ve had enough of you.” Abass’s voice was quiet but came from a dark place deep in his throat. “You will learn to respect those who put a roof over your head.”

  The smell of rust and something recently dead made me gag.

  “Get ready to apologize, you insect.”

  I bit my lip to keep from saying the words he wanted to hear.

  He stood before me, breathing hard. He slapped me fast across the face and shoved so I landed square on my butt. I struggled to get up, but my foot had wedged between two pipes and I could only push myself up on my elbows.